Sunday, January 06, 2008
Slow Cooked. And a Little Half Baked
It’s been a while, and sometimes I wonder if coming back to this is just silly. Grad school, life and daily distractions keep me from writing, and, for that matter, cooking. I haven’t made a fine sauce or a pesto from scratch and I certainly haven’t written much that didn’t end up with a grade attached to it at some point.
Given my present state of artlessness, you may wonder what I have to share. Well, I’ll tell you. After more than a year, there’s a recipe that’s been steeping. There’s a story that’s been growing. After all this time, there’s a blog post that’s ready for posting. You be the judge of whether or not it’s half-baked.
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I used to come home from a long, hard day with fresh veggies, a few remnants of wits in place and a plan. What wits I had would slowly multiply as the flavors of oregano and lemon melded with a little Marsala and some cayenne. By the time I turned off the stove and poured the last glass of malbec, I felt back to normal.
I could taste my daily struggle in that meal. Whether I’d made an airy summer quiche with zest winding through everywhere or a savory soup featuring lentil and cumin in the slow cooker, I could see my direction. My voice came through in the meal I made.
Where’s my voice today? I can still make a pairing that sends my mom off to work with envy-drawing leftovers. I can talk for days on end about why Obama inspires and we need to end the lies that bind us to Iraq. I can prattle about the past and what got us to this point. I can dig my heals in and draw on the wounds of the questioning few who asked if our need to police the world was really brave, or just foolhardy pride.
I can watch polls and bite my nails over the news. But what have I done for world peace lately? I see myself, my recipes and my words as flat. Have I become a crocodile cook, lamenting the horrors of packaged crusts, while I open up a can of marinara?
In the absence of solutions, are we all part of the problem?
Today, I come home after a hard day and cook a meal and pour some wine and don’t feel rejuvenated. I don’t hear the answers I always knew but couldn’t quite reach. I clean up the kitchen and I feel just the same. Floundering and without peace.
Given my present state of artlessness, you may wonder what I have to share. Well, I’ll tell you. After more than a year, there’s a recipe that’s been steeping. There’s a story that’s been growing. After all this time, there’s a blog post that’s ready for posting. You be the judge of whether or not it’s half-baked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I used to come home from a long, hard day with fresh veggies, a few remnants of wits in place and a plan. What wits I had would slowly multiply as the flavors of oregano and lemon melded with a little Marsala and some cayenne. By the time I turned off the stove and poured the last glass of malbec, I felt back to normal.
I could taste my daily struggle in that meal. Whether I’d made an airy summer quiche with zest winding through everywhere or a savory soup featuring lentil and cumin in the slow cooker, I could see my direction. My voice came through in the meal I made.
Where’s my voice today? I can still make a pairing that sends my mom off to work with envy-drawing leftovers. I can talk for days on end about why Obama inspires and we need to end the lies that bind us to Iraq. I can prattle about the past and what got us to this point. I can dig my heals in and draw on the wounds of the questioning few who asked if our need to police the world was really brave, or just foolhardy pride.
I can watch polls and bite my nails over the news. But what have I done for world peace lately? I see myself, my recipes and my words as flat. Have I become a crocodile cook, lamenting the horrors of packaged crusts, while I open up a can of marinara?
In the absence of solutions, are we all part of the problem?
Today, I come home after a hard day and cook a meal and pour some wine and don’t feel rejuvenated. I don’t hear the answers I always knew but couldn’t quite reach. I clean up the kitchen and I feel just the same. Floundering and without peace.
